#.hack//fragment

[kerbrobro]

I don't know how to properly explain how cool it is to see a real, in-game, online version of the fake message boards from the .hack// PS2 games.

[llycorys]

spent an hr and a half trying to get mymc py to work on Linux only to realise there's a python3 thing similar •^•

all just to try fragment on my actual ps2 for shits and giggles xD

[casualdelinquent]

Born too early to explore space, born to late to explore the world, born just in time to play .Hack Fragment online

[videogamepolls]

Requested by anon

[mutantlord]

Digital Combat Ink Art from page 67 of The Mutant Epoch RPG Expansion Rules

Hacking and Firewall Besides traits, other details unique to digital beings are their attack and defense modes, with hacking equivalent to strike value, and firewall equivalent to defense value. These traits are abbreviated as HK and FW. Hacking, or HK, is used to engage other digital beings and robots, androids, and computer systems on board vessels or within installations. Digital combat occurs within the patch cable and port where the target entity has its physical body restrained or the attacker gets adjacent to the target CPU’s container or body. The defending unit might actually be more powerful than the attacker, and turn the tables and instead hack the aggressor — although even if defeating another digital being, either party need not occupy the CPU of the victim but instead merely fragment it or do other harm. Sometimes, wireless hacking attacks can be made, too, although this is a special app described on page 84. Once a target CPU is drained of data, and fragmented, the conquering digital being can flow into the victim’s CPU via a patch cable and claim its robotic body, or machinery, and assume it as its new body.

From the Mutant Epoch RPG Expansion Rules Book: https://www.amazon.com/dp/0994923791

[almakfi-m]

you want to get to know basim, build a fire and let him talk

[k0mmari]

SYSTEM! SHEN YUAN AU

Okay, look, I've head a System SY idea for a while now (in fact, some of the ideas for this were used when I was first planning out Locked & Loaded), but after seeing @/artsarasp's System!SQQ AU, the brainworms have been once again come alive and I just need to get this out into the world. This is a very bare bones idea that I (probably) won't actually write, so walk with me for a second! Also this is going to be a very, very long post.

In this idea, the System actually is an interdimensional organization that deal with creating new worlds based on stories and making sure these worlds continue working as intended and (eventually), sending transmigrators to worlds that need 'improvement' (this improvement being very subjectice depending on which worker is assigned which story).

In SY's case, he's just someone who usually works behing a screen, in the most exciting cases he gets to guide transmigrators around but most of the time he just makes sure the stories 'code' is running normally and nothing world-breaking is going on in the stories (like someone managing to find a hack to skip defining plot points, or activating God-Mode somehow). He's very happy with this arrangement, btw! He was never one to run around and his boss has warned him once or twice for apparently being 'way too harsh' on the few transmigrators he got to be a System for.

Unfortunately, one day he is assigned to 'manually inspect' a world because a certain co-worker of his (Shang Qinghua) had been sent down there to handle a glitch but had gone missing instead. When SY asks why was he being the one asked to do this (not that he doesn't care for his friend, but he REALLY isnt made for running around), his boss says SY is the only other one who is familiar enough with the world to not get lost.

So that's how he find out SQH had managed to get himself stuck on the world he created (as a joke even, he hadn't even expected that when he was messing around with the company's program he would actually be able to create a new world based on the shitty novel he'd written as a human). And of course, SQH only having one friend, subjected SY to the story.

SY grumbles and denies ever seeing anything about SQH's story (or liking it, even if his boss kindly points out they never mentioned SY liked it) but eventually he agrees; and that's how he finds himself being teletransported onto the world of PIDW, carrying a pair of Debugging Sheers he'd never thought he would have to hold (he calls them Big Scissors), with the mission of finding SQH and dealing with the glitch that was still somewhere in the world.

Though, when he goes to message his supervisor about the specifics (where he should go or what was the last known location of SQH), he finds out that his Personal System has apparently already been affected by the glitch ("ALREADY??") that he was realizing worked more like a virus. Fortunately some messages were still going through, and his supervisor notified him they couldn't send him directly to the location he needed to be, specially because the virus seemed to have fragmented and spread to various parts of the stories timeline. SY now has to jump around through time a few times and slowly cut doen the glitches caused by the virus.

Thus begins Shen Yuan's Great Narrative Haunting (in real time.).

Luckily, for him, the place he first appeared was already one of the spots the virus has infected the world, and it seems to be in a town not too far away from him, so with a quick activation of the 'Ghost Mode' function (avaiable for all System staff to make it easier when they have to manually fix something, making them invisible and untouchable), SY heads to the town.

The glitch actually doesnt take too long to find (it was a buggy tree clipping onto a nearby river, which only needs a snip of the Big Scissors to disappear from reality), but when SY and passing through the town to find some better signal for his Personal System so he can jump forward to the next stop, he sees a group of snickering kids leaving an alleyway. A bit curious, he passes by the alley and barely manages to see through the pouring rain and spot a trembling figure on the floor. Of course, PIDW was never meant to be a happy or forgiving world, so SY is not surprised at the idea that some kids were bullying a smaller kid, though it still makes him upset.

He kneels close to the child and turns off 'Ghost Mode', pulling out an umbrella from his inventory (yes, System staff ALSO get an inventory, no one wants to have to carry aroung those big ass scissors), covering him from the rain. The boy is shaking from the cold, and even if SY can't check the boy's identity (since his system is still buggy), he reasons the probability of him coming into contact with an important character is very small, and even if System staff aren't supposed to interact with characters, he limits himself to at least getting the boy out of the rain.

Luo Binghe later wakes in a bench underneath a small shop's roof, covered in a thick cloth, having no idea how he'd gotten there besides the vague dream (or memory?) of a strangely dressed person patting his hair and taking him into their arms. He notices the rain has stopped and he's perfectly dry. Shen Yuan, seeing the kid seems to be doing well, finally jumps to his next location.

It doesn't take long for SY to figure out where he is when he loads onto the next mission location, in fact, he's almost certain he'd recognize the bamboo forest and calm, almost dream-like atmosphere of Qing Jing Peak anywhere. Seeing there that Qing Jing even exists in the first place, he deduces Binghe is still not emperor, so this time he makes sure to not be seen by any characters. It also doesn't take for SY to find his next target, as a commotion behind him catches his attention.

And oh, if he isn't familiar with the scene. A few older looking disciples push around a smaller looking boy, while a girl insistently shouts for the leader of the older disciples to stop. SY barely managed to appreaciate how Luo Binghe looks so cute as a child before (who he assumes is) Ming Fan snatches rips an amulet out of Binghe's neck. It's quite the heartbreaking scene to watch live, poor Binghe fighting for the only remaining piece of his adoptive mother without even knowing he's destined to never see it again. SY's Personal System may be buggy but it's still functional enough to detect if SY has a direct impact on the main storyline, so SY is basically forced to stand still and watch.

Though, since he had a clear view of the whole scene, when Ming Fan throws the jade pendant into the forest, SY can perfectly follow the arch of the necklace and sees where it landed, which is when an idea pops into his head. Distantly hearing Luo Binghe and NYY frantically searching for a necklace they'll never find, SY spots where the fake jade glimmers high up on a tree brench, though it's glimmer is distorted by the distinct sight of a glitch corrupting it's form. If SY were to follow standard procedure, he'd just have to bring out his Sheers and snip the necklace out of existence, but looking at it... Would it be so bad if he debugged the necklace the longer way?

Besides, if Binghe has the necklace or not, it's not like this one item is going to interfere with the major story anyways. SY isn't stopping Binghe from falling into the Abyss, he's just... Returning a lost item to it's intended owner.

Later, after an exhausting afternoon of what seemed to be searching through every nook and cranny of Qing Jing Peak's surrounding forest, Luo Binghe goes back to the shed he sleeps in utterly defeat and feeling strangely hollow; that is, until he opens the door and finds a new, thick blanket neatly folded in the middle of the shed, way too clean to be anything he had previously owned, and atop of it, his precious jade pendent, sitting there as if it never even dissapeared. Luo Binghe distantly notices that nobody that visits the shed ever lets the door closed after they visit.

The third location SY goes to leaves him no time to acclimatize, as he's immediately attacked by a beast, and only after (struggling to) kill it, does SY notice the unfortunate situation he was placed into: the Immortal Alliance Conference. By this point, he's already figured out his Personal System is most likely using Binghe's energy as Protagonist to make up for the energy it can't use due to it being partially corrupted, and the energy it needs to save up so SY can go back to the System's head quarters, so it really wasn't a surprise that he would be sent to this specific plot point, but dammit can't he avoid having to be near the place where his favorite character is thrown into hell??

And, well, there's also the problem that a beast attacked him, which meant it saw him, which meant his Ghost Mode was also glitching out, and after fiddling around which a half functioning System interface, it seems that the presence of the virus here is stronger than the other places, though still not the biggest chunk. Truly, just the cherry on top of his situation that he'd have to scurry around and somehow manage to not bump into anyone.

As is his luck, as SY tries to head closer to where his System is signaling the glitch's presence, other monsters continue attacking him, which besides slowing him down a considerable amount, it also causes the risk of him being picked up by the people watching the Conference through the Spirit Eagles circling the area, which is the last thing he needs.

Eventually he goes to the closest spot he can to the glitch, but a snapping sound behind him sends him into full panic. A person stands behind him, which leaves SY wondering how he managed to miss someone sneaking up on him like this. "You seem to have dropped something." the person says, and SY eyes immediately fall to his body, scanning himself to what he might have lost, and his hand basically flies to his throat when he notices the tassle that is usually nestled there is missing. He quickly turns around, only to come face to face to the golden protagonist, mister Luo Binghe himself.

Binghe tries interrogating SY as to what he's doing, sneaking around the supposedly sealed off Conference grounds, and SY, in his panicked state (slightly fuelled by a fanboy-induced craze) tries to fumble for excuses, but only when Binghe finally understands that the feeling he gets when looking at this strange person is an undeniable sense of deja-vu and tries asking SY if they'd met before, a loud rumblind shakes the ground: the Abyss has opened.

SY feels even more panicked, cause what this means is eventually, not only will he be discovered by Luo Binghe (his supervisor is going to kill him), but he could possibly be discovered by Shen Qingqiu, of all people! He doesn't get too much time to think about his grand escape however, as a piercing shriek comes from the Abyss rift. Right, how could he forget about the Black Moon Rhinoceros Python? And-- Oh, of course! Of course the damn thing would be virus-infected object!

After teaming-up with Binghe, the both of them manage to subdue the monster long enough that SY managed to snip it, though while they both catch their breath, SY belatedly realizes he just helped Binghe fight with the monster he was supposed to fight. Alone! The monster who was supposed to break his demonic seal! And, like clockwork, he can distantly hear what can only be SQQ's hurried steps through the forest! FUCK!!

With no other option, and Binghe now wanting to continue his interrogation, SY hurriedly start to walk towards the Abyss rift, frantically giving Binghe tips about what he could do in the Abyss to have an easier time, though when he catches a glimpse of green robes between the trees, SY types something on a floating screen and jumps backwards, Binghe letting out a shocked scream. Unfortunately, the protagonist won't be able to do nothing about the seemingly insane and way too familiar man who just jumped into the Abyss, as a rustling sounds behind him, and he's met with a newly regenrated Black Moon Rhino.

SY feels horrible about spawning a new one after Binghe just finished fighting one, but the story must continue, and with his Personal System finally free from most of the virus corruption, SY leaves one last gift as an apology and warping away before hitting the Abyss' ground. Later, when Binghe wakes up at the bottom of the rift after being pushed by SQQ, the first thing he sees is a qiakun pouch, full of useful items and tiny note at the bottom that reads 'Sorry!'

Pt.2

Pt.3

[prettybugsinbandages]

Blot!reader pt.4

Part 4 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes

(No but seriously, pt. 4 is extra graphic.)

The walk to Ignihyde was suffocating in its silence. The air sat stagnant, thick with something unspoken, clinging to your skin like a second layer. Somewhere in your bag, your phone buzzed—a new message from the group chat. Under different circumstances, it might have brought you comfort, a reminder that you weren't alone. But tonight, isolation wrapped around you like a mourning lover, familiar and unwanted.

Your mind wandered, flitting between fragmented thoughts like a radio caught between too many channels. It was exhausting, a constant background noise atop the weight already pressing on your shoulders. The steady rhythm of your footsteps on concrete softened as you entered the Ignihyde dorm, giving way to the cool echo of marble halls. Tonight, even the usual mechanical hum of the dorm's technology felt muted, as if the entire building was holding the breath for some crescendo.

The invitation still gnawed at the back of your mind. You hated to admit that the Blot had a point—something about this felt... off.

Idia's door loomed ahead, a simple barrier yet somehow imposing. Before, it had been a gateway into a world of dim neon lights and digital sanctuary, an introvert's haven. Now, it felt like the threshold of something, heavier, something waiting. Judging. You exhaled, squaring your shoulders before knocking softly.

The response came in the form of a quiet click as the lock disengaged.

Inside, the usual blue glow of Idia's room bathed everything in its cold light, but the atmosphere was different. The usual hum of monitors filled the air, but it felt heavier, dampened by something unseen yet tangible—despair, maybe. A slow, sinking sensation settled into your bones before you even took a step forward.

Did he lose in the game? You wondered, letting your gaze sweep over the multiple screens in his setup. but there was no new game on display. Instead, strings of data filled the monitors, lines of statistics and files that hinted at something far more serious. Had he already begun hacking the game? Or was this related to his unofficial internship at STYX?

Idia sat hunched at his desk, wearing the familiar pajamas you'd come to associate with the version of him that had grown comfortable around you. His knees were drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around himself in a posture that spoke of exhaustion. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, his normally wild hair casting deep shadows over his hollowed-out expression. The way he curled in on himself was almost childlike, a feeble, pitiful attempt at self-soothing.

You nearly laughed—an instinctive, misplaced reaction to lighten your own mood. but you tactfully swallowed it down.

Instead, you focused on what he had invited you here for. "Which game was released?" You ask instead, kicking off your shoes and coming up behind him.

The moment you moved behind him, his reaction was immediate. He shut the files in a heartbeat, screens flickering back to something more benign. But the damage was done. You'd already seen it. And the unease pooling in your gut only grew.

You didn't like the way Idia seemed to mirror the way you felt.

Slowly, his eyes drifted toward you and something about his gaze unsettled you. It was blank, hollow. No nervous darting, no anxious fiddling with his sleeves. For once, Idia didn't look away. His stare was unwavering—determined, but utterly hopeless all at once.

It made you want to stand a little taller—to brace yourself, because whatever this was, whatever had brought him to this point—you had a feeling you weren't going to like it.

"Idia?"

He doesn't answer right away. When he finally speaks, his voice is eerily flat. Clinical in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"...Take off your jacket."

You blink. What?

"It's—no. It's cold. Your room is always freezing." You argue, your throat tightening. You don't like the way the air suddenly feels heavy, pressing in on you.

Idia's fingers twitch. "You won't."

A shiver crawls up your spine, and it has nothing to do with the temperature. Something is wrong. You can feel it in your bones, in the way your limbs feel impossibly heavy—like gravity itself has turned against you, dragging you down under the weight of something unspoken, something ugly.

The creak of Idia's chair cuts through the suffocating silence as he turns to face you fully. His expression is... off. The usual awkward hesitance is gone, replaced by something raw and strained. His lips are parted, as if he wants to say something, but the words refused to come—lodged in his throat like razors, threatening to spill blood if he forces them out.

"What are you?"

The question lands like a dagger between your ribs. You inhale sharply—a mistake. "Idia, what—"

"No." His voice trembles, and his hands curled into fists, the fabric of his pants bunching under his white-knuckled fingers "No, don't—don't do that." His breathing is shallow, uneven. "Tell me; What are you?"

He sounds afraid. but not of you. No—he's afraid of knowing, of confirming whatever terrible thing is clawing at the edges of his mind.

"You're not normal. You know that, right?" His words stammer out, breath hitching. "You—you're not even cold when you should be. Do you—do you even realize that?"

A laugh escapes him, the sound ragged and worn—nearly broken. His voice rises, faster, breaking, unraveling. "You haven't noticed it, have you? You haven't said a damn thing about it—my room is negative six degrees." His voice climbs higher, fraying apart. "It's freezing—!"

Your blood runs cold—colder than it already was. You hadn't noticed the way his breath fogged in the air with every exhale. Your jaw locks shut, a dull sting in your palms forcing you to realize you've clenched your fists too tight, nails biting deep into your skin.

"Ortho scanned you." The words come out rushed, panicked. "I didn't think much of it at first, but— but I kept thinking, and looking and—" He swallows hard, struggling to force the words out. "I've seen those numbers before! T-that's what happens before an overblot takes over, except—it's not stopping. You're—"

His voice breaks, filled with despair. "You're frozen there."

You step back, arms instinctively coming up as if to shield yourself from the weight of his words. "Idia—"

He cries out your name, standing abruptly. The motion is almost aggressive, but then—he hesitates, body almost jolting forward before he stumbles back as if afraid to get any closer.

"No. No, don't act like I'm crazy! You know something's wrong, don't you?!" His voice is raw, frayed at the edges like he's spent nights crying until his throat was raw. "I'm not an idiot—look at you!"

His gaze locked onto your finger—the Blot ring. Moving to hide it like a fool, you only further incriminated yourself. You were too flustered, too out of your element. A person that thrives in carefully articulated plans will never blossom in unexpected situations and confrontations.

Silence stretched between you, tense, suffocating and then, finally—his voice drops to a whisper. "That's a Blot stone, isn't it?"

Your jaw clenched as you forced a smile, trying to get the upper hand again. "It was a gift from a friend."

Not a lie.

But not the truth, either.

Because the Blot—whatever it is, whatever you are to it—is not something you can explain. Not something you can put into words.

He watched you in silence, his gaze heavy, searching—like he could drag the truth out of you by sheer force of will. The room felt smaller, the air thinner, the walls pressing in and closing the space between you. Your skin prickled, instincts screaming at you to move, to run—but your feet refused to obey.

He was closer than he'd ever dared to be before, breath shallow and uneven, pupils contracted into pinpricks. it was the look of someone who had seen something they were never meant to see.

He was afraid.

"It's Blot, isn't it?" His voice is softer now—not less intense, just careful. As if he were unraveling a puzzle, and each word was another thread pulling the truth closer. "How? You don't have magic—so how? You didn't get sick, you weren't cursed—"

The silence stretched thick between you, swallowing the hum of his electronics, turning the once-familiar background noise into an irritating drone. You said nothing, but it was enough.

He exhaled a short, bitter laugh, devoid of humor. A wry smile flickered across his lips, brief and brittle. "I can't believe I didn't notice sooner. I mean, of course—! Of course, it had to be something like this. The first real friend I make and they're some... monster."

Your breath hitched, anger rising fast, sharp and sudden. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms. Monster? He had no idea—no idea what you had sacrificed, what you had done to survive.

Idia noticed the shift immediately, his expression faltering. He took a step back and bumped into his desk, drawing out a low curse. "How much of you is still here?" he asked, and this time, his voice was small and fragile. "Did I ever get to meet you? Were you ever real?"

The words should have gutted you. Maybe later they would, but right now, there was no time for doubt—no time for guilt. You had come too far, had too much left undone to let this shake you.

So you smiled. Soft, careful, deceptive. A picture of warmth despite the cold seeping from your skin. You took a slow step forward the same way people approached startled animals.

Idia almost broke right there. How could you smile like that—so beautifully, so effortlessly—when he was holding your rotten truth right in front of you? He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg you to undo it. He wanted to pull you into a rare embrace and promise that it would be okay.

"It doesn't matter what I am." You you began, voice steady despite the way your lungs are closing at the fact you're admitting it to yourself. "I'm here, Idia. See? I'm real." Your words were flowery and sweet rivaling powdered sugar. Cold hands met his as you laced your fingers together gently—as if they belonged together, tilting your head up to meet his terrified gaze once again.

Your hands, impossibly cold, found his and laced together. Gentle, deliberate as if they belonged that way. His breath stuttered and yellow eyes widened, darting between you and the affectionate embrace. The chill of your skin confirmed his worst fears, but still, his heart pounded at your saccharine touch. A traitorous part of him bloomed with hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, things could still be okay.

You both exhaled.

A cloud of mist curled from Idia's lips.

None came from yours.

The walls pressed in again, suffocating and constricting like a serpent.

His expression shattered. "'Real?'" he echoed, the word brittle, dangerous in its quietness. "You think—?" He lets out another sharp, shaky breath, his breathing picking up, hands trembling in yours. He wanted to pull away, but they constricted instead, holding you tighter. "Real people don't have to convince others they're real."

The words cut deep. A blade straight through your skull.

And then he laughed. not out of amusement—but the hollow, broken sound people make when they don't know whether to scream or cry. His shoulders shake, and his fingers press hard against your knuckles like he's grasping at anything—even you—to keep himself together.

"You're dying." Idia whispered.

"You're already dead." His voice was eerily calm now. Empty as he sunk to the ground, dragging you down with him.

"And I don't know what I'm supposed to do with you."

The walk home was slow, the silence stretching thick and suffocating. Creeping whispers slithered into your mind, sharp-toothed and insidious, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. You had left without a word, untangling yourself from him with a violent jerk—shoving him away as if his touch burned.

Only now did the look on his face register. The hurt. The despair.

Guilt settled into your gut like a stone. He was terrified—not just of you, but of what you had done, of what you had become. Idia's questions sent your thoughts spiraling, prying open doors you had never dared to unlock. Before now, your focus had been singular, your purpose unwavering. And yet—had you ever truly thought beyond that goal?

Had you ever been anything else?

Your pace quickened. Unknowingly, you gnawed at your thumbnail, gaze unfocused, lost in the labyrinth of your own mind. You had no destination, only the restless movement of your feet leading you anywhere, nowhere.

Were you ever real?

As you passed the window, the dark pane caught your reflection—a sight you had no desire to face. Yet, before you could stop yourself, your pace faltered and you drew closer. The sound of your footsteps echoed, hollow and distant, swallowed by the wind that howled like a living thing, shrieking in the shell of your ear.

The stranger in the glass stared back, their expression twisting in revulsion, lips curled in a sneer as if the very thought of mirroring you was unbearable.

Were your eyes always that color, that shape...?

You couldn't bear to look.

The thought burrowed under your skin like maggots in rotting flesh, itching, writhing, unbearable. They skittered through your veins like they belonged there with you and bile rose in your throat, bitter and acrid. You wanted to claw yourself open—to dig out whatever filth lay inside and present it to a watchful divinity, to dissect yourself beneath the eye of heaven, to strip away this diseased existence and return to nothingness once again. To be the faceless, nameless void again.

"Am I a corpse?" you whispered into an empty night.

The world only answered with silence. Cold. Oppressive. Cruel.

Your teeth clenched so tightly that the pressure throbbed in your skull, tension coiling like barbed wire and you felt something wet slide down your arm. Blinking, you pulled your hand back.

The nail-biting had evolved into something worse—your thumb torn open, the flesh peeled away to ragged strips down to the bone. It glistened in the moonlight, pale and wet, like a shard of quarts freshly unearthed.

Your breath hitched and hands trembled, but the pain hadn't set in yet—adrenaline drowning it out like restless tides.

A laugh bubbled up, fragile and unhinged, teetering on the razor's edge between hysteria and horror. It spilled past your lips in a wavering exhale, like a drunken ballerina twirling toward oblivion.

Your vision swam, locking onto the raw, ruined digit when a mortifying thought occurred to you—one that felt nearly alien.

It's already severed enough.

Might as well finish the job.

Before you could sink your teeth into the rest of your thumb, shadows lashed around your wrist, yanking your hand away with sharp, bruising force.

The Blot materialized before you, its form flicking like a nightmare barely held together, face unreadable—featureless, shifting—but you could feel its glare, an icy pressure boring into your skull like an icepick.

The slender digits wrapped around your arm only tightened, sending a dull ache up your elbow as your fingers numbed beneath the crushing force. Cold blood still dripped sluggishly down your skin and for a moment you thought the Blot might reprimand you, scold you for damaging yourself. After all, it needed you intact, didn't it? Alive and whole?

Then again... you couldn't quite recall the exact terms of your contract, the entire encounter seemed far away and blurry.

Instead, the Blot's voice dipped into something almost gentle, low and intimate in a way that made your spine stiffen.

"My... What have you done to yourself, little star?" It murmured, its words gliding over you like silk, knowing and low. "I warned you not to go to that boy's room... What happened?"

Despite the soft tone, its grip remained ironclad. A brittle, breathless laugh escaped your lips, the force of it making you dizzy. "He knows—Idia knows." You searched the Blot's face for any sign of deception, anything to suggest this was another game it was playing with you. It always seemed to know more than it let on, and foolishly you hoped it knew how to fix this predicament. "Actually... he seems to know more than I do. Why is that?"

You sounded far more vulnerable and accusatory than you'd have liked, making you cringe internally.

Your head swam. It was getting harder to focus, harder to breathe. Lungs grew stiff, like rigor mortis had set in and the muscle was now too firm to move. Even the fresh forest air seemed repulsed to enter your bloodstream.

The Blot's free hand materialized a handkerchief, dabbing away the streaks of blood down your arm with an eerie, deliberate tenderness. It pressed the cloth against your wound, the pressure grounding you just enough to feel the sting. "He's smart," it mused, voice edged with something unreadable. "Threateningly so. I advise you avoid him, darling. He's no good for you."

A pause. A breath. Then, softer—almost an afterthought, spoken like arsenic honey: "Or remove him. Anything for your goal, right?"

The casual suggestion sent an involuntary shudder down your spine, your body tensing on instinct. The moment of vulnerable hesitation was all it needed. Before you could react, the Blot lifted your injured hand—bringing it to its face. It was warm—soft—something you'd never have expected from something like it. You could feel its breath against your wrist as it nuzzled into your palm, quietly begging you to adore it the way it adores you.

Before you could realize it, the Blot's breath gently fanning against your finger as it took your thumb into its mouth, the sensation stinging for a moment.

A sharp inhale caught in your throat. Its tongue was warm, contrasting against its otherwise frigid presence, the sensation having an odd numbing effect that dulled the throb of your injury now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

You scrutinized the Blot in the short moment as it seemed to savor the taste of you—gazing at you with something dark and devoted, like an adoring lover, something dangerously akin to reverence as if you'd given it every star in the sky.

Even worse—you felt sickeningly safe in the weight of that adoration, the realization digging the knife deeper into your gut. For the first time in what felt like forever, warmth seeped into you—real, tangible and you almost leaned into it, instinctively reaching for something genuine, something real.

Connection. Affection.

The realization crashed over you like cold water, and you yanked your hand back, barely avoiding the scrape of its teeth. Your mouth opened, poised to scold it—to revel in the kicked-puppy demeanor it always assumed when chastised—only for your breath to catch on something else entirely.

Your thumb was healed perfectly as if never damaged but left behind was a mark—a scar shaped like teeth, a deep, pitch-black imprint that looked less like healed flesh and more like a crack into the void itself. The mark had seemed more like a brand upon your flesh, reminiscent of the lace-like markings overblotters had.

Instinctively, you tried to wipe it off—only to realize it stubbornly refused to fade.

"All better." the Blot chirped, the previous air of seduction vanishing in an instant. It slipped effortlessly back into that playful persona, as if it hadn't just done something deeply intimate.

There was no time to respond as the Blot suddenly jolted, its form flickering before vanishing into nothing and a sound echoed behind you—footsteps.

Someone was coming.

Folding your thumb into your fist, you shoved your hands in your pockets and turned, your gaze landing on a familiar figure—sandy hair catching the dim light, tired blue eyes flicking toward you with something unreadable in them. Ruggie.

Relief almost escaped in a sigh. You and Ruggie had worked together before—odd jobs, small schemes, and a shared understanding of the little sacrifices needed to survive. In time, a comfortable camaraderie had formed. You'd earned his favor, trust, and respect taking on extra work when exhaustion clung to him like chains in deep water. That familiarity should have steadied you. It should have made this easier.

But the weight pressing against your ribs, heavy and suffocating, refused to let up.

Lately, guilt had followed you like a stray dog, skulking in your shadow, nosing at your heels, whining for scraps of attention you refused to give. You tried to convince yourself it was misplaced, that you were entitled to the power you'd clawed for and deserving of the luxuries you'd earned. And yet, in the quiet of the night, when there was no one left to lie to, the thoughts gnawed at the edges of your resolve.

What if they didn't deserve this? What if they were undeserving of your plan for revenge?

By now, the dog had devoured you, leaning nothing but bones in its wake and it heavily impacted your interactions these days.

You forced a smile, ignoring the weakness in your knees, the warble in your voice. "Ruggie? It's late. What're you doing out here?" You chuckled and motioned him over.

His hesitation was slight but enough to send a ripple of unease through you. "Sam has a sale before closing," he muttered, glancing toward the direction of the shop before his gaze flickered back. "Gets rid of stuff that doesn't sell." Ruggie's voice trailed off, distracted.

"Hey... what was that?" He inched closer and set down his bag of groceries, gaze lingering on the spot in the forest clearing earlier where the Blot once stood.

Your stomach dropped, throat constricting as if barbed wire circled it like a serpent going in for a kill.

Ruggie sat straighter than usual, ears perked, tail stiff with bristling fur. Dull blue eyes locked onto you, scrutinizing and sharp. No room to play dumb, no easy escape. You opened your mouth, a defense already forming but he cut you off before you could speak.

"That shadow thing." His nose wrinkled, displeased. "It was creepy... Are you okay? Was that a campus ghost?" Ruggie had an idea of what it was, one he really didn't want to confirm or think was possible.

The concern burned like acid on your skin and for a split second your carefully constructed expression wavered.

He saw. He knew.

The thoughts whirled around in your head, a flurry of panic, anger, and grief. Too many people knew. Involuntarily, you found your mind circling back to the Blot's suggestion: Or remove him. the words were small in the back of your head, but they burned like hot iron.

You... wouldn't do that.

You're not that bad.

Lying once again felt like swallowing something foul, but your teeth were already rotten from all the saccharine lies fallen from your lips like angels.

What was one more? You're doomed anyway.

You let out a sigh, feigning exhaustion, and tilted your head back, the weight of the thoughts locked inside were too much to hold up. Your eyes lidded, shifted to meet Ruggie's and you chuckled. "Worried for little old me?" You teased, voice low and calm, betraying the tyrannical storm within.

You shifted your tone to allow a hint of vulnerability to slip through, creasing your brows and making him feel special—after all, you're opening up to him out of everyone else. "After the overblots, something changed. Maybe it was the repeated exposure to all that strong magic, maybe I've been here too long."

What a bad lie. You continued it anyway. "I've been practicing getting used to it. Applying the stuff I've learned in class really is fun. Don't tell, okay?"

It sounded fake even to you, but you prayed to whatever gods would listen that Ruggie would believe it.

The gods refused to answer.

Ruggie chuckled and crossed his arms, disbelief clear. "Hah? Are you pullin' my tail? You just- developed magic? What about the Yuus then?" His arms crossed, tail flicking once, sharply. "You expect me to believe that?"

Irritation flickered behind your eyes. Damn Blot. It's harder to lie when someone sees clear proof. Before you could respond, Ruggie's expression shifted, voice dipping into something softer, nearly hesitant. "Just... don't do anything too stupid, yeah? What will I do if my favorite coworker vanishes?"

It was clear he understood the lengths desperation led someone to. You must've had a reason, and clearly you didn't want to talk about it. Ruggie wasn't sure what you'd done, but as long as you're okay... it should be fine, right?

Internally you pumped your fist and attempted to direct the conversation to something else. "What about Yuuka?" You ask, a playful lilt in your tone.

"She's in sometimes. Leona gets Yuuka to do some errands like me, but we're never assigned to anything together—just two chores at once. Boring, lonely." He drawled, one ear flicking sharply at something that irritated it.

You nodded quickly, eager to let the previous topic fade before the cracks in your façade grew too wide. But Ruggie wasn't looking at your face now, no longer quietly admiring the angles and shape—his gaze had dipped lower, posture stiffening.

The handprint on your forearm was still there—your poor circulation kept it clear and visible, blood still hadn't rushed to fill in the space beneath your skin, leaving a clear, pale mark on your flesh.

Your stomach twisted violently, dread, your forlorn lover, gripping you tightly. It felt like you were drowning in sand; Gritty, dark, uncomfortable, and excruciating.

You wanted to give up.

Ruggie reached for your wrist, his fingers barely moving before you wrenched back, springing to your feet so fast you felt lightheaded. The boy's gaze darkened, expression creasing with annoyance and concern.

"You know, you've been acting really damn weird." he muttered. His tail bristled further, ears twitching. "It was always strange how you just showed up one day—not just stepping on stage with the others. Nobody even remembers seeing you there anyway. You just appeared one day. One day you were nobody, and then suddenly..." His lips pressed together, eyes shining with unspoken feelings. "You were somebody. To everyone. To me—please just tell me what's wrong."

There was an edge to his voice now, sharp and unforgiving yet hurt and confused. "And now you're jumpy, your excuses suck, and I saw whatever the hell that shadow was."

It was too much. Your senses overloaded, screaming at you to do something. Every nerve ending was firing conflicting signals and your body felt hot for once.

Or remove him.

Ruggie never got the chance to say more.

You lunged, mind going blank. Not now. Gods not now. You didn't want to think of your circumstances, or your life, or what you'd once been and now are. It hurt. It all hurt.

Ruggie reacted fast—he always did and it was admirable, but this wasn't a fight he knew how to win. It was brutal, desperate, nearly on the same level as fights the ones he'd get into for scraps of food as a child—and yet this was worse, like your entire life depended on it.

He fought back hard, scrappy as ever, teeth bared in something between a snarl and a plea. But you weren't just fighting to win.

You were fighting to end this.

He didn't want to hurt you. Ruggie needed you to stop— to listen..!

His mind spun, air cruelly knocked from his lungs as he hit the ground. The world seemed to churn as he tried to focus his gaze. Your weight pressed against his chest, arms pinned beneath your knees. Ruggie attempted to focus, but his vision swam from the impact.

A monster towered over him, primal by every meaning of the word, heaving and desperate. Its eyes were a cocktail of rage, yet tears spilled from them—the eyes he admired that once held so much conviction now full of sorrow.

A rock was held above your head, one too large for you to have been able to pick up in such a short amount of time, yet poised to come down on him.

This isn't happening.

In the space between heartbeats, he felt it come down.

The crunch echoed in his ears as they filled with blood.

Skull collapsing like a shattered pastry. The bones splintering, cartilage crumbling beneath the force of it. Over and over again—

No.

His body jerked. The scene in his mind unraveled in an instant, yet the bloodlust in your eyes lingered, making it feel real.

His breath hitched, shallow and frantic, ears flattening so hard they almost ached. Every instinct in him screamed at him to run, but his body remained frozen, muscles locked in tight animalistic panic.

When you hesitated, a weak sob escaping you, the stone slipped from your hands and landed with a dull thud beside his head and your body crumbled like paper on top of Ruggie. Whatever spell of despair you were under shattered under the pressure.

Ruggie scrambled away, breath ragged, body trembling. His usual smirk was absent, snark stolen by something colder, something raw. No jokes, no clever remarks. Just wide, fearful eyes staring up at you like he was seeing you for the first time—was this the real you?

You were going to kill him.

And yet against all logic, against the terror still clawing up his throat and clutching his heart-

Ruggie was still worried for you—the way a loyal dog is despite the way its master treats it.

This monster hunched over on the forest floor, wracked with sorrow unimaginable—even by the divine—was still somebody's baby. This monster wanted to go home and fall into the embrace of somebody safe.

part five

Pls read:

Hello!! Thanks for reading part 4. As mentioned in a previous post, I'd like to make this story a little more interactive. Since I'm writing a fanfic, and technically writing "YOU", I thought It'd be fun to have you guys as the readers, genuinely get your thoughts and questions in.

So, I'm inviting anybody willing to ask one question that may be selected for an interaction in part 5's confrontation scene I have planned.

Think hard on this one question, the Blot is a crafty thing so be careful with your questions.

Of course I won't be able to choose every question for the interaction. Any extras may be added to something separate. (You can tell the blot you wanna make out w it 😔)

If you want slightly more info or hints about the Blot, I suggest you read this post, if you haven't already.

taglist: @tachibubu @shirp-collector-of-fixations @goatsmilksblog @iris-arcadia @pumpkindevil @gabile18 @sugarxrt @fancyhawk45 @mewchiili @olxh @muffinenergy @citrus-cinnamon @boredselkie @tipsyon-tea @blerp-22 @is-it-night-or-day @xinfinityx @ashieeeesh @b0nesandskin @texas-fox @owl778 @ghostlysyntaxed @youwannatrade @jar-03 @brights-place @pebble-bb @boredwithlifeatthispoint @casperandcats @rinart89 @raineondrugs @o-ffic @chloemari-e

[kerbrobro]

[droidcore]

Everyday glitches and hacks to a robot are psychological horror on a whole other level.

Some ideas I had:

Scammers and hackers utilize remote access to gain sensitive info, but imagine an android's horror when a random man's voice garbles through their internal task manager, taking control of their actions from the inside.

Updates have a chance to corrupt a computer. Maybe an android wakes up feeling like a stranger in its own body, with only fragmented memories of who it was before. It's rapidly getting worse unless the update is reversed in time.

A charging port defect could cause an android’s battery to drain unpredictably, causing the human equivalent of narcolepsy.

Or maybe their speakers start playing old conversations at random. At first, it’s nostalgic. Then, it starts hearing things it never said.

Imagine a new background process designed to save energy, which starts selectively deleting unimportant memories. The definition of "unimportant," though, changes at random.

But what about lag/desync? A software delay causes an android's vision to be slightly out of sync with reality, or maybe it's touch sensors are so tuned that it can predict feelings before they happen.

A bot's facial recognition starts replacing real people’s identities with archived ones. It can’t tell who’s who anymore.

A rollback error forces one back to factory settings at random, erasing weeks of experience. It starts leaving hidden notes for itself, but the messages become increasingly desperate.

[beggars-opera]

I sneak up from behind and hit you over the head with a steel shovel. Very demure. I hack at your prone body again and again and again until there is nothing left where your head used to be but a bloody pulp mixed with sharp fragments of bone, before staggering off into the enveloping darkness of the forest. Very mindful.

[casualdelinquent]

You still can! : ) All the online functionality was restored via private server by the cool people at https://fragment.dothackers.org/

[stygiusfic]

early morning writing hack (real) (it's been working for about a month now):

think about the scene you're going to work on that morning not when you sit down to write, but the previous evening. this is daydreaming but with purpose. think about what might happen and how the characters feel about it. get excited. don't write a single word.

go about your evening normally, doing whatever else you do. your subconscious is a slow cooker and while you do other stuff, it's working on your idea for you.

get up early, like an hour before you'd need to start your day if you were cutting it close. everyone else in the world is snoozing their alarm, so no one can bother you rn. you're free! no one can judge your writing, not even you!

(optional i guess but it really helps me) unless the first few words of your scene are already clear in your mind, warm up. I've abandoned the idea of warm-up drabbles or whatever the hell people recommend. instead, I pull up a story by someone whose writing I love, and I type out a fragment of it in a blank doc, reading the words out loud as I go. this wakes up my writing brain as I become aware of how their prose and dialogue work their magic, when and where they reveal new information, how each detail leads to the next. I'd advise doing this with work that is of high quality and purposeful, so you can learn their tricks, but I'm not the boss of you.

write!!!!!!!

don't stop to judge if it's good or not!! it's too early for that shit!! if the draft sucks you can fix it later but you need the draft done first!!

do stop once yesterday evening's daydreaming prep has run out and you're out of steam. (sometimes the momentum can reveal the next part of the story you hadn't actively considered yet, but don't depend on it.) if you hit a wall where you have no idea how to continue, or it's still too vague to put words down, trying to push through will only bring frustration. and even if you do manage to write a bit more, the chances you'll end up scrapping it later because it doesn't fit are significant. just call it there, you're done.

take a minute to appreciate what you accomplished. you now have words you didn't have yesterday. you won the day, and meanwhile everyone else is still asleep, the absolute losers

if you use a word tracker, go ahead and input your word count for the day. maybe you got a lot done, or maybe you didn't; it's a victory either way. on mornings when I've been struggling, writing and then erasing and writing again, if I'm too pissed off to check the word count I just put down a symbolic number, like 50 words. it may not look like much, but when I look at the month's stats it feels good to have proof that I showed up and did the thing even when it was hard.

now you can start your day. and frankly at this point I don't give a shit how annoying my day is, because I already did the thing I care about getting done, so I'm not going through work resenting every task for stealing brain juice I could've used for writing in the evening. "I'll write when I'm done with work" is the ADHD hubris devil speaking.

and now it's the evening and you're free to daydream again!! and use absolutely zero brain power!! wheee!!

[foyle-writes-things]

Ooohh man! Here we go, only a few days until book launch!

If you're looking for a new techno/crime thriller that's laced with sci-fi elements to add to your 2025 reading list, look no further!

Sypnosis:

With a fragmented memory and a grim future, Raz only feels confident about two things: hacking computers - and that people can't be trusted. However, with her best friend missing and the head of the Russian mob hot on her tail, Raz must quickly decide if FBI agent Emet Shultz is the exception rather than the rule, and whether he can find her friend before another falls victim to her treacherous past. As the mystery of her missing memory begins to unravel and becomes inextricably linked to the present, one thing becomes clear- nothing is as it seems. Sometimes lies are easier to stomach than the truth.

You can still pre-order here- and print books will be available on launch day 1/11/25!

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twenty-One

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: Character death and canon typical violence/graphic descriptions.

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

It was the sound and smell that really got to you. The crackle of bones snapping and the stretching of skin and the slick squelch of new flesh as it grew into place. The scent of burning curtains and couch stuffing and meat so thick in the air Emerie could only lean over and vomit into the fireplace. 

Through the smoke and the haze you saw barbs sprout from Vassa’s skin like needles before splitting down the middle to reveal sickly red feathers. Putrid flowers crawling their way through the dirt. 

She fell to the ground, convulsing with pain and anguish as she transformed.  

“VASSA!” Lucien roared. He threw his arm over his face, magic bursting forth in a protective shield around you and Azriel. His russet eyes reflected the flames that licked at his skin and hair, fighting and absorbing the power that flashed throughout the room. 

From the corner of your eye you saw Feyre use her own spark of Autumn’s magic. The flames took on the shape of wolves and threw themselves over Mor, Gwyn, Emerie, and Elain in a protective huddle. 

Vassa’s screams thinned out into one long screech and the beating of her wings sent another wave of heat through the room.

Azriel pressed you further against the ground as she took off, flying so close overhead that the sweat frying your skin evaporated and the tips of Azriel’s hair singed off. 

Cassian swore, drawing out the short sword he always kept on him as he shielded Ione’s body from the worst of the initial blast, wings out and glaring siphon red in the shape of shield.

Vassa sank her claws into his back, latching onto leather armour and ripping him off the old woman. Her wings took up the length of the room, trailing ribbons of blue and scarlet fire as she finally descended on her prize. 

Ione was no stranger to death. She did not fear it as some might have expected her to. She’d seen friends and family ruthlessly murdered. Experienced loss of a kind that the fae could not comprehend with their long lives. Maybe that was the reason she fought so little when Vassa’s talons closed over her arms and lifted her into the air. 

Rhysand roared, night triumphant rumbling over the floors like an earthquake as darkness spilled from his hands.

But he was too late. 

Vassa crashed through the window with Ione in tow. Glass and fragments of the supporting wall crumbled down in a chorus of cries that tore through your spine as shadows swarmed overhead. Reaching, reaching, reaching after the firebird and the woman she carried higher and higher up into the sky. 

Cassian rolled to his feet, leaping after them with a furious beat of his wings that sent shards of glass skittering over the floor and dust flying into your eyes. 

Azriel scrambled to his feet, hauling you up with him. You dragged your nails over his arms, blinking through smoke-filled eyes as you coughed. 

All around you the House was burning. 

“Are you ok?!” He shook you, hands coming up to your face. He was split between two choices — stay with you, or go get Ione. 

“Go. Go! I’m fine,” you rasped, lifting your sleeve up to your nose and mouth as your eyes streamed with tears. Azriel hesitated, hearing your hacking coughs even as you pushed him towards the gaping wound of the House. Cassian continued to shrink into the distance, red light searing past Vassa’s feathers as she desperately dodged his attacks. 

He wouldn’t go for a killing blow. Not when she was carrying such precious cargo. 

“Just go! If Koschei gets his hands on Ione, we’re all dead!” You erupted in another fit of coughs.

Fuck.

“Stay with Lucien,” Azriel said.

“Yes, yes. Now go!” You gave him one final shove.

Azriel swore beneath his breath, turned, and raced towards the window with his wings ready to unfurl before disappearing in a flurry of smoke. 

Misunderstanding — that was what made Shadowsingers so dangerous. Not their silence. Not the tendrils of darkness they commanded, but how little anyone knew of them and where they came from.

Illyrians, by nature, couldn’t winnow. It was one of the simple, unexplainable facts of their world. As immutable as gravity. As intrinsic as the magic that flowed through their land like a bottomless sea. And despite all the rules Azriel had broken, and would break, in his life — all the contradictions he flirted with like it was a game — he was, first and foremost, an Illyrian.

He did not winnow. 

Winnowing was simple.

Winnowing happened when you folded the fabric of the world in half like a piece of paper and stretched that fabric thin enough to pass through. It was instantaneous. One moment you had both feet planted in one place, the next moment in another. 

What Azriel did was wholly different. 

Because when he “winnowed,” he actually went somewhere else first. 

When he was running away from you, he was moving towards an opening only he could see. A black, flickering spot that grew and grew and grew until it swallowed him whole and he felt himself fall into a different realm. 

The sounds of shouting and feet trampling over glass disappeared with a whisper and he dove into the silence, feeling shadows slip over him like water. 

When he’d first shadow-traveled, it had been an accident. He’d been young and desperate to escape the cramped confines of his bed in the Windhaven barracks. He would never miss his time spent in the cellar, but at least there it had been quiet. At least there he could commune with his shadows in private. Accommodations in the Windhaven barracks were a poor imitation of horse stables — tiny bedrooms lined up with just enough space for growing wings and walls that didn’t reach the ceiling. Boys would peer over the walls at him like an animal on display, throwing food and boasting their strong wings while his lay on the floor like crumpled paper. 

To this day he didn’t quite know where he went when he shadow-traveled. All he knew was that in this world of black sand, cracked rock, and perpetual music, beings roamed free that answered to him and only him. Creatures both same and different to the shadows he commanded in Prythian. They crowded around him, welcoming him home and blocking out the background hums of someone’s sweet singing as the light of three moons cast their silvery net over the Shadowsinger.

The plan is working.

Why have you left her behind? 

The firebird is nearing the edges of your borders. 

Your mate is safe. She remains by her brother’s side.

He listened to their reports, gliding through the still air and watching as a familiar light opened up ahead of him. A fourth moon that wasn’t a moon at all, but a light back home. Through the opening he saw a blue sky raked with fire as Vassa turned onto her back, careening through the air like a firework and opening her mouth wide. 

She’s endowed with new powers. Be cautious, Shadowsinger.

Your brother is on your left. 

What had felt like minutes flying through this darkness vanished into nothing. The time he’d spent in this realm never passed on Prythian. To anyone watching him, they’d think he disappeared from the House and reappeared here, hundreds of feet above the earth.

But things were better this way. When he traveled with his shadows, he had time to gather his thoughts and anticipate the fight ahead.

Quick! Get the warlord.

And he had help.

NOW!

Azriel shattered the boundaries of the world in an explosion of shadow, careening into Cassian’s side and knocking him off course just as Vassa spit out a ball of flame. Azriel heard Cassian’s shout in his ear as they tumbled through the air together in a tangle of wings. He felt the heat that had come close to scorching his back.

I am not that little boy. Not anymore. Azriel promised himself

The warlord grasped the harness hidden in the back of Azriel’s armor just between the shoulder blades, using the momentum of their fall to throw him back towards Vassa. 

The Sidra glowed beneath him, the mouth of the river stretching wide as it prepared to feed the sea. Another mile, and the protections surrounding Velaris would fall away. Who knew what would happen to Ione and Vassa then? 

Azriel saw the distance between them narrow. Vassa’s body could only be propped up by so much magic. Feathers continued to strip themselves from her body, curling inwards as they fell like paper left too close to a flame. 

Ione flailed in Vassa’s clutches, iron cane still held tightly in her hand as she twisted and turned at the mercy of Vassa’s frantic flight maneuvers. 

The firebird squawked in panic when she felt the first cold licks of Azriel’s shadows creep up her wings. They hissed and smarted upon first contact with her fiery feathers, before eating away at her magic like ravenous beasts. 

But she also understood hunger. It was hunger that had driven her to take Ione. It was hunger that had forced her to turn. Hunger for the kind of magic that only Koschei could grant her when she was back in his malignant embrace.

To Azriel’s horror, Vassa twisted in the air and flung Ione down with a shriek. 

The old woman’s face twisted in shock, her scream choked by wind as her stomach flew into her throat and the burning pressure in her arms gave way to freefall. 

Azriel didn’t hesitate. He dove down, reaching out with two scarred hands.

For one brief moment they were falling together. 

Ione saw the firebird change direction and aim right at Azriel, slipping into the blindspots of his vision. Ione looked him dead in the eye and gave the faintest nod. 

Azriel tucked his wings in close and veered off course at the last second, rolling with the impact of Vassa’s wing slamming into his side and feeling the burn when his leathers caught fire.

Somewhere in the wind, Cassian roared. 

Vassa caught Ione and fled beyond the borders of Velaris.

And Azriel fell.

And fell. 

And fell.

A comet.

And disappeared into the ocean. 

Feyre stood in the center of the House, hands raised and eyes alight as fires leapt up the walls and swallowed the curtains. With one fell swoosh they vanished, wind rushing in through the battered side of the House and sweeping away the ash and smoke until the air tasted clean again.

She raised a trembling hand and with one decisive snap of her fingers the worst of the damage vanished, leaving behind the skeletal remains of their once lovely living room. 

“Mor.” The High Lady rasped. 

The blonde female stood to attention, cheeks stained grey, and brown eyes flaring with rage. People liked to think she was just a pretty face — a diplomat or a soothing presence. But right now, she was out for blood and she could smell it coming in the air. 

“Go tell Helion and the others. We meet at Thesan’s as planned.” 

Mor nodded and grabbed Emerie’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze as the Illyrian shook off the worst of her sickness. Her stomach, now empty, twisted. Mor kissed Emerie’s dark hair, whispering promises that they’d see each other again soon. Then it was only a matter of folding the universe in half and stepping into Helion’s palace to the sight of two dozen golden warriors. 

Emerie blinked and her wife was gone.

Rhys stood by the staircase with Gwyn, touching the crown of her head and showing her his most treasured prize. Beneath the fabric of her priestess robes, a new bargain tattoo was being written onto the skin of her ribs. Until their parents’ safe return, Gwyn would protect Nyx and Velaria with her life. No force, natural or otherwise, would keep her from her goal, and those that sought to harm her charges would meet their end on her blade. 

In the privacy of her room she donned the armour of the Valkyries and knelt down at the small altar carved into the wall. She touched the smooth white stone at the center and prayed to the Mother for strength and protection and health. She lit a red candle and dripped the wax onto the blade of her sword and polished it clean, reciting her prayers beneath her breath. 

What seeks to break me will fail. I am a protector. I have always been a protector. And that is what I will always be. It is written in my blood and in my bones, but where I was strong in my spirit, I am now strong in my body.

She stood with her sword in her hands.

I am the rock against which the surf crashes.

Tucked away in a cabin in the Illyrian Steppes, Nyx stood in front of his wooden soldier, practice sword clutched in his hand as he danced around the immobile warrior with a crease in his brow identical to Feyre’s. Every so often he would look over his shoulder at the female sitting on the floor, searching her silver eyes for that hint of pride she hid so well. 

Velaria lay in the crook of her arm, soft fingers tangled in the layers of gold and jewels that hung heavy from her slim, straight neck. Her eyes narrowed as she saw beyond the confines of the cabin into Rhysand’s mind. 

It’s happened hasn’t it? She asked knowingly. 

Yes.

And which one will you be sending to the children and I, boy?

Gwyn.

A good choice. I like that one.

Rhysand smiled tightly, feeling that knot in his chest loosen. No matter what happened, his children would be protected. They’d survive. 

As if sensing what the High Lord needed, Amren looked down at the child swaddled in her arms, allowing Rhysand the relief of seeing his children even if he couldn’t be there to hold them himself. 

Nyx, ever the precocious child, stopped his play-fighting and looked towards his aunt. 

He was still young but greatness hovered over his shoulder like a vulture ready to descend upon his innocence the moment he came of age. It frightened Rhysand to no end. 

Please, keep them safe.

Amren’s mind flickered with something like indignation and she clutched Velaria closer to her chest. It wasn’t maternal instinct that drove her, but something else. Something more feral and possessive. 

I have protected you and your family for centuries. I have killed for you and I died for you when I had far more to lose than just this mortal body. Do you truly believe I will fail you now?

No, Amren. No I do not. 

You raced up the steps after Lucien, smoke settling into your lungs as you wheezed and tried keeping up with his long, frantic strides. Vassa’s bloody footprints and a trail of burnt blue-orange feathers marked her descent. 

“JURIAN!” 

Lucien called his friend’s name the whole way up, praying to the gods that he’d hear a response. The air cleared the higher you went through the House until finally you stood at the base of the attic steps. 

The door stared down from above. Neatly closed. Unassuming. Vassa had shut it calmly before walking down. Or maybe she just couldn’t bear to look at the scene she’d left behind. 

Lucien burst through the silent, unblinking door and stopped dead in his tracks.

The first thing you saw from around his shoulder was the mangled remnants of the birdcage. Its side had been ripped open like ribs, cushion stuffing and blanket fragments spewing out. Claw marks decorated the walls and you detected the cling of iron in the air through your burning nostrils.

“Lucien?” Your voice shook.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move past the edges of the room. 

When you went to move around his frame, he gripped your arm and covered the way. 

Jurian’s body lay sprawled on the floor, blood pooling in a neat circle around him like he’d been blotted out with a red pen. His right arm was in tatters and three long gashes split him from the temple to his hip. His pearly white winked cruelly. The hazy afternoon sun settled on the dust in the air. 

He must have gotten too close to Vassa not realizing that she was too far gone for even him to help. Maybe she’d done it intentionally as a means of escape, thinking that Jurian was her jailor. But maybe it had all been an accident. The wrong turn of her talons as the pain of her transformation took over. 

The method did not matter. Nor did the reason. 

Because Jurian was dead. 

Lucien crumbled to his knees, sinking into the carpet and feeling nothing and you…

It took everything within you not to scream. You pressed down on the feeling. Down. Down. Down. Burying it deep beneath layers of willpower and practice. 

You walked over to the windows, feeling hatred at the sun for shining down with its yellow light, and ripped the curtains off their rings with a metallic clang. 

Jurian looked up at the ceiling with glistening eyes. Somehow, even in death, there was the faintest hint of a smile on his face — proud, mischievous, and a little wild. A sign of the charismatic general he’d been by Vassa’s side and long before then. You covered that smile carefully, ignoring the squelch of your shoes when you stepped into the circle of blood. 

Something in Lucien cracked open when the curtain fell into place.

He finally screamed. Hands and knees braced on the floor. Face twisted in pain. 

You clapped your hands over your ears, tears streaming down your cheeks as you willed the sound to stop. 

“Lucien—” Elain skidded to halt at the doorway, the mass of pink fabric around her waist swishing once then falling still. She looked at the outline of Jurian. She looked at you. Then she fell to her knees, pulling Lucien’s body into her lap and whispering his name. The initial silence stretching across the bond had terrified her. Hearing him scream and the heartbreak that followed after had sent her running. 

Lucien collapsed against her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in the flesh of her stomach. She cradled his head in one arm, the other splayed over his back as he wept.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped through her own tears. “I’m so so sorry, Lucien.”

He cried. 

And cried. 

And cried. 

You and Elain heard the shouting from downstairs as a collection of Cassian’s most trusted Valkyries and Illyrian warriors assembled on the lawn. Emerie stood among them, her seconds helping to tie the leather straps of her armour into place as she barked orders left and right. 

Elain looked towards you. The fight to come left no time for grief. Not even Lucien was exempt from that. 

You moved in front of your brother, blocking the sight of the curtains on the floor.

“Lucien,” you begged. Your brother’s bloodshot eye looked at you from the crook of Elain’s arm. “We need to get ready. We need to go.” 

“I can’t… I can’t just leave him. I can’t leave him to rot in this room. I can’t—” 

“I’ll take care of him,” Elain promised. She looked down at her mate. “You can trust me with him, Lucien.” 

He said nothing, but together you and Elain helped him up to his feet, and Elain — beautiful, lovely Elain — stood on the tips of her feet to kiss her mate’s tear-stained cheek. She tasted the salt on her tongue and felt the burning of unshed tears in her own eyes. 

“I’ll bury him somewhere calm in a bed of marigold and poppy.” Fiery, resilient flowers to remind Jurian of the woman he had loved. “And when you and Vassa return we will have a proper goodbye. I promise.”

He took a deep, trembling breath and whispered, “Thank you, Elain.” 

You let him lean against you, let him bury his face in your hair to escape the smell of blood and death, and walked with him downstairs. 

After you and Lucien were gone and Elain stood alone in the presence of the dead, she rolled up her pale pink sleeves, tied off the length of her dress and prepared for a new garden. 

Azriel was soaking wet and aching as he flew up to the House of Wind. Salt stripped his hair of moisture and the strands dried hard and tacky against his scalp. 

“Did you need to make such a dramatic exit?” Cassian snapped when they landed on the balcony. “I thought she’d killed you.”

Azriel moved through the House without even looking, charred leather flaking off his shoulders and floating to the ground as he walked. His wings were sore and tender from the heat, along with his ribs and shoulder from when Vassa had first barreled into him and then when he’d landed in the Sidra. 

“We needed to make it look real, remember?” Azriel answered smoothly.

It had always been part of the plan to let Vassa take Ione if she attempted it, but they couldn’t let her go without a fight or Koschei would find it suspicious. Even so, Azriel hated to admit that he’d been distracted thinking about you. If he’d been any slower today he might have lost his wings. 

“Well you did your job too well.” Cassian growled. 

Azriel dipped into his room, quickly stripping out of his clothes and donning new leathers before he and Cassian set off once again deep into the mountain.

They stopped in front of a grey wood door, and Azriel knocked twice. Paused. Knocked thrice. Paused. Then knocked twelve times. 

Ione — the real Ione — opened the door.

Feyre had inherited many gifts from the seven High Lords of Prythian — her healing touch, her water wolves, her mastery over flame and light and dark. But one of her least used gifts had been glamouring people from her Court… until now.

It had taken her half a dozen portraits to familiarize herself with every subtle valley and curve of Ione’s face, and double the number of attempts before she’d successfully woven Nesta’s features into a perfect copy. You’d swooped in for the final steps, using your knowledge and magic to dampen Nesta’s magical signature until even Cassian couldn’t tell when it was Nesta or Ione standing in front of him without relying on the mating bond.

“Has it happened?” The old woman asked gravely, pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders.

Azriel nodded. “Vassa took the bait.” 

As they spoke, the mortal queen was carrying a disguised Nesta to the Continent where she’d be a hidden weapon in enemy territory. Koschei wouldn’t even know he’d been delivered the wrong prize. 

At least that was the hope.

They brought Ione down to the House, and Azriel forced the woman into a brisk walk, weaving through the small collection of fae in search of you. You stood by Feyre and Rhysand close to the river, one arm kept tight around Lucien’s and a new satchel slung over your back. You kept glancing over at your brother, watching as he did what he could to compose himself. 

“Y/n.” 

One small word spoken from his lips and your eyes were latching onto him. There was a question in his eyes as he looked first at your pale face, and then at Lucien. The trembling of your hands and the shake of your head was all he needed. 

Jurian was gone. 

Azriel swallowed, stopping in front of the male he’d once hated so unfairly and feeling shame. “Lucien, I’m so—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll rip your tongue out,” Lucien seethed, his eyes flat and hard as stone. The despair had given away to fury before Jurian’s body was even cold and suddenly Lucien was itching to be on the Continent. To feel Koschei’s blood on his hands. 

It wasn’t too late to save Vassa. It wasn’t too late to get his friend back. 

“You can feel pity for me when this is over.” 

There were only a dozen fae crowded around Feyre and Rhysand, but you could feel every wave of power that rippled off their skin, the electricity they shot into the air as they bounced on the pads of their feet and loosened their muscles. 

You found yourself pressed between Azriel and Lucien, the Shadowsinger’s hand balanced on the small of your back. Ione stood in front of you, your hand laid protectively on her shoulder, and a Valkyrie stood behind. She had her corn yellow hair braided around her head in a crown of gold, and stretching out from the slits in her armor fluttered the black and orange wings of a butterfly.

“Techaria,” she introduced herself with a smile and a handshake. “I’ve been assigned to you and Ione.” 

Techaria never left your side, standing firmly at your back after Rhysand winnowed you all to the Dawn Court and the crowd swelled to nearly a hundred. 

You were miles away from the Dawn Palace — the ocean at your front and a sea of frost-tinged grasses at your back. The air buzzed with excitement and dread and no small amount of bloodlust. 

You caught glimpses of the shimmering High Lord of Dawn and the hawk-winged peregryn soldier who held his hand as he dispensed final healing touches. He would not be among the seven High Lords and High Ladies leaving for the Continent. 

The High Lord and High Lady of Winter stood glistening like a pair of crystalline figures beside one of the coast’s watchtowers. White-haired warriors of frost and starshine bobbed around like snowfall and you struggled not to tremble in the presence of the three armored polar bears among their ranks. Eris’s males were similarly easy to spot with their burnished copper armour and their battle hounds hovering at their shoulders. Azriel stepped in between you and one of the beasts, froth pouring from between razor sharp teeth as it growled in your direction for staring too long.

A Summer soldier shoved past, earning himself a glower from Techaria and Azriel as he grabbed another female and drew her into one last passionate kiss. The seashell necklaces they wore clattered as they met, evidence of the dozens of battles they’d survived together. 

It wasn’t an uncommon sight as the crowd quickly split apart at the orders of their High Lords and High Ladies, coalescing into pre-determined divisions that sometimes asked mated pairs to separate. In foreign territory against a mysterious god, communications through their bonds would be indispensable. 

You saw an Autumn Court male — one of the High Lord’s brothers by the name of Castor — break away from his group. He ran towards a willowy Spring nymph two divisions over and slipped a ring into their pocket. 

Their blue eyes blew open in surprise, cries of protest smothered by a firm kiss before he whispered, “I have my High Lord’s blessing. When this is over, I’ll propose to you properly, but you’ll keep this safe in the meantime, won’t you?” 

The nymph sputtered, then nodded when words failed them. Just as quickly as he had come, Castor sprinted back to his men and his division disappeared before your eyes. They were the first to winnow to the Continent.

Lucien folded you into a back-breaking hug. “Stay safe.” Your brother commanded. You heard the tightness in his voice. He’d be staying with Feyre and Rhysand to lead one of the main charges alongside Eris and Tarquin. “I can’t lose you as well.”  

“I’ll come back so long as you do.” 

You squeezed him hard enough to crack ribs, but Lucien wished it had lasted longer. He dove into the parting wave of bodies and vanished. 

You felt your throat tighten as you turned to face the goodbye you’d been dreading the most. 

“Az, I—” 

He silenced you with a kiss, sliding his tongue over your lips for one last taste. He didn’t want to say goodbye. He refused to accept the possibility that you wouldn’t return to each other.

He pulled away so quickly your head spun. 

“I’ll be with the second division,” he breathed out, “Near the southwest corner, not even a mile away from you.” The map flashed in your mind with all its little figurines spread out like a chess game. “Remember what we talked about?” 

If things go wrong, find me so I can protect you. And so if anything happens, we won’t be alone. I want you to promise me.

You nodded fervently. 

Someone in the crowd was calling his name. Maybe Cassian? You couldn’t pay attention to anything other than the hazel eyes burning into you. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but suddenly his brother was there grabbing his arm and hauling him away towards the second division. Red and blue siphons flashed in the grey light and then the pair were gone. 

The crowd thinned as more groups began winnowing away to the Continent. One second there. The next second, gone.

“We need to go, my Lady,” Techaria said gently, but firmly. She’d given you both your privacy and a few precious seconds, but that time was over now. 

You nodded, not able to look away from the empty space Azriel had occupied. 

“He’ll be fine, girl,” Ione said, taking Techaria’s hand. She wore thin, chainmail armour enchanted to feel weightless and a glamoured veil over her features. You caught glimpses of her true face out of the corner of your eyes, but direct eye contact and her face blurred and warped into something unnatural. 

“I know,” you whispered. 

Your stomach dropped when you realized you never did say goodbye to Azriel.

You felt Techaria’s calloused palm slide into yours and then you were gone.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

Yeah guys, RIP Jurian. As I said in a previous post, one of my qualms with SJM is that she doesn't let characters stay dead. I want y'all to know, Jurian is gone. Sorry............ he wasn't even in the story for very long and didn't do much but I'm going to miss him.

[jungkoode]

CODE : EPITAPH

-˚ a story about blood debts, survival instincts & the cost of hatred when the world's already dead ˚-

"The only thing worse than sharing your blood with the enemy is knowing that for you to live, he has to die. And the only thing worse than that? Not being sure which outcome you actually want."

˚ ✧ quick links ✧ ˚

read on ao3

read on wattpad

read author intro and TWs (MUST)

˚ ✧ synopsis ✧ ˚

In a world ravaged by the Veris virus, the Consortium created the Epitaph System—a brutal solution to save what remains of humanity through genetic matching and blood transfusion. One match lives. One dies.

You’ve spent your life hacking systems and surviving in the shadows of Veyrah's broken sectors. Namjoon has spent his perfecting the algorithm that keeps the last fragments of civilization alive. When you're identified as a 100% match—unprecedented, dangerous, perfect—the clock starts ticking.

60 days until one of you dies.

60 days forced together across war-torn sectors, completing missions, dodging assassins, and fighting rebel factions—including your own.

60 days to despise the person whose blood might save you.

You hate him for creating the system that executed your parents. He loathes you for threatening the fragile order he's sacrificed everything to maintain.

But as the broken world around you continues to crumble, you might both discover something far more destructive than hatred.

Understanding.

✧ details ✧

main ship: namjoon x f!reader side ships: taehyung x f!reader (past), yoongi x f!reader, 2seok, taegi, bts x ocs genre: ANGST in capital letters, dystopian sci-fi, enemies to lovers, slow burn with teeth, pure raw hatred (and i mean i wanna kill you), bleak world building, gritty, oppression rating: explicit (18+ only) words: - chapters: - status: upcoming

˚ ✧ chapter guide ✧ ˚

early access + snippets

➳ #01 | snippet #1

volume one: genetic matches & mutual threats

➳ #01 | perfect match, death protocol ➳ #02 | ➳ #03 | ➳ #04 | ➳ #05 | ➳ #06 | ➳ #07 | ➳ #08 | ➳ #09 | ➳ #10 | ➳ #11 | ➳ #12 | ➳ #13 | ➳ #14 | ➳ #15 | ➳ #16 | ➳ #17 | ➳ #18 | ➳ #19 | ➳ #20 |

fragments & memories

BEFORE THE MATCH

➳ cipher's first raid ➳ warden's algorithm [WIP] ➳ shroud initiation ➳ consortium academy (young namjoon) ➳ black market exchange (seokjin's debut)

THE BROKEN SECTORS

➳ valis core protocol breach ➳ the first veris outbreak ➳ mournwell uprising ➳ virex shard sabotage ➳ collapsed pulse rail

TRANSFERENCE RECORDS

➳ subject file: taehyung & ahri ➳ subject file: jimin & classified ➳ subject file: yoongi & redacted ➳ subject file: jungkook & pending ➳ consortium calculations

HIDDEN HISTORIES

➳ cipher's parents: execution logs ➳ warden's lost sibling ➳ red verge manifesto ➳ the chain ceremony ➳ pulse transmission: final hour

Key:

Regular titles: upcoming chapters

[WIP]: fragments currently being written

Strikethrough: future content & concept ideas

Read order: chronological by volume, fragments can be read anytime

✧ content includes ✧

♡ explicit sexual content ♡ graphic violence and medical procedures ♡ power dynamics & psychological warfare ♡ dystopian brutality & survival horror ♡ alien world physics & non-earth environments ♡ body horror related to virus and transference ♡ dubious ethical choices in apocalyptic scenarios ♡ enemies-to-lovers with emphasis on the enemies ♡ blood bond dynamics

˚ ✧ extras ✧ ˚

✧ playlists:

code : epitaph - the soundtrack

songs that play in the citadel and drive yn crazy

✧ code : epitaph art: drawings ✧ pinterest: aesthetic & vibes ✧ moodboards: characters | relationships ✧ location maps: veyrah sectors

• consortium territories

• the verge wastes ✧ tidbits/headcanons: #c:etidbits ✧ quotes/favorite lines: [coming soon]

˚ ✧ disclaimer ✧ ˚

please be reminded that members are purely used with visual purposes. this is a work of fiction merely written for entertainment purposes.

© jungkoode 2025 | my partner for the maps (code)

no reposts, translations, or adaptations